


Down to the Wire

by awesomesockes, whumphoarder



Series: Christ, What Now? [18]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Broken Bones, Broken Jaw, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hurt Tony Stark, Medical Doctor Bruce Banner, Nausea, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Drugs, Sick Tony Stark, Steve Rogers Is a Good Bro, Surgery, Tony Stark Whump, Vomiting, Whump, please don't say we didn't warn you, stomach bug, this is gross
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23880469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awesomesockes/pseuds/awesomesockes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whumphoarder/pseuds/whumphoarder
Summary: There are a lot of contenders in the running for Worst Night of Tony Stark’s Life™, but the night he comes down with a stomach bug—less than two weeks after his broken jaw is wired shut—might just take the cake.
Relationships: Steve Rogers & Tony Stark
Series: Christ, What Now? [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1282181
Comments: 73
Kudos: 350
Collections: Avengers as Family, Ultimate Favorites





	Down to the Wire

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: Graphic description of vomiting with a broken jaw and a character having a panic attack. Please proceed with caution.
> 
> Thanks to [xxx-cat-xxx](https://xxx-cat-xxx.tumblr.com/) for beta reading!

Tony really, _really_ does not want to be sick right now.

He’s sitting as still as possible on the couch in the compound’s dimly-lit common area, breathing slowly in through his nose and out of his mouth. Through half-glazed eyes, he’s watching an overly enthusiastic Australian man on the home shopping network demonstrate the use of a high-powered vacuum cleaner by sucking marbles off of a shag rug.

Courtesy of his colorful past, Tony’s had plenty of experience with nausea over the years. He’s learned it’s best to not drag it out—just puke and be done with it. But unfortunately, tonight it’s not quite that simple.

His broken jaw is throbbing, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He’s due for another dose of painkiller, but moving seems like a terrible idea at the moment. Even if he could move, the metal wires holding his jaw shut prevent him from swallowing anything solid—pills included—and trying to keep down a capful of his artificial-cherry-flavored painkiller seems pretty ambitious at the moment. Hence why he’s been sticking to deep breathing exercises and distraction—in the form of everything from finally signing the never-ending stack of SI paperwork Pepper’s been on his case about for weeks, to watching mindless television.

When Tony first started feeling sick that evening, he blamed it on a combination of too many consecutive hours in the lab without food and the cocktail of pain medication and antibiotics he’s been forced to choke down ever since his surgery ten days ago. But when the protein shake he had for dinner didn’t make him feel any better (and his stomach began bothering him in other ways as the hours dragged on), true dread set in. Even simple involuntary actions like yawning and sneezing put tension on the wires and send jolts of pain through his skull; he doesn’t want to think about just how much throwing up with a broken jaw is going to suck.

The infomercial host switches to vacuuming cereal flakes off of a granite countertop, causing Tony’s stomach to churn and him to decide that that’s enough TV for now. 

Moving his hand ever so slightly, he reaches for the remote control balanced on his knee and switches the device off, plunging the room into darkness. With nothing to distract him now, the nausea only ramps up. Tony can feel cold sweat beading on the back of his neck, though whether that’s from feeling sick or his building anxiety, he isn’t sure.

After a few more miserable minutes, Tony decides it might be worth chancing a walk to the kitchen in search of ginger ale. Carefully, he pushes himself off the couch and starts his rather pathetic shuffle forward, stopping every few feet to take measured breaths. 

When he opens the fridge, he’s hit with the aroma of someone’s leftover pork chops and nearly loses his battle with his stomach. Suppressing a gag, he just manages to snag a can of ginger ale and slam the door shut. 

He sighs in relief. Mission accomplished.

...Until he remembers that he can’t drink it without a straw. Which, of course, is all the way on the opposite end of the room. 

Tony squeezes his eyes shut in frustration and blows out a careful breath. _Why?_ Why did he have to lower his faceplate before making that sarcastic comment to the metal-glove wearing HYDRA lunatic they took down last week? What was he trying to prove? All Tony succeeded in doing was discovering the guy had a mean left hook.

Tony’s startled out of his internal angsting when the kitchen light suddenly flips on. “Tony?” Steve asks, sounding confused. “I thought you went to bed?”

There’s a snarky retort about mother-henning on the tip of his tongue, but Tony swallows it down along with the bile creeping up the back of his throat. “Thirsty,” he mutters through his clenched, wired teeth, nodding to the soda can.

Steve’s eyes narrow in concern, but he gets a plastic straw from the pantry anyway. “Is your jaw hurting? Do you need more painkiller?”

Tony grimaces at the thought of keeping anything else down. “Nah…” he breathes out. “’m good.” 

Steve looks dubious, but doesn’t press the matter. Tony has to admit he’s been surprisingly good about that lately. 

For the first couple of days following the incident, Pepper and Bruce were tag-teaming it for the role of Tony’s postoperative caregiver. It was a bit of a nightmare for all involved—even Tony has to admit he’s a horrible patient. Thankfully, by day four, he was feeling well enough to blend his own smoothies and swallow his glorified liquid Tylenol with only minor supervision. They were getting along just fine until day five, when Pepper got the call that her sister in Phoenix had just gone into labor—a full three weeks earlier than expected—and was delivering twins.

Pepper was reluctant to leave at first, but Tony assured her he’d be fine. Three days later, Bruce had to jet off to Stockholm to give his keynote address at the annual Green Energy convention. Since Clint and Nat were out on a mission, that left only Steve to keep an eye on Tony.

Tony figured they’d be butting heads, but Steve has been pretty careful not to overstep so far. Turns out all those years of being a sickly youth in the thirties taught the soldier a thing or two about balancing caretaking and personal dignity.

Steve passes him the straw, and Tony accepts it with a nod of thanks. He sticks it into the ginger ale can and takes a few cautious sips. The first few go down alright, but then his stomach turns and Tony burps sickly. He has to swallow twice to get the next gulp down.

“You alright?” Steve asks, lifting an eyebrow. Somehow his expression is equal parts neutral and concerned. How he does that, Tony will never know.

“Fine,” he mutters, breathing carefully through his mouth. Soda is definitely not helping, he decides. He sets the can down on the counter with a grimace. “Just forgot how much Canada Dry sucks ass.”

“Sure,” Steve says with a doubtful nod. “I’ll just get you some water,” he offers, moving over to the fridge.

“No, don—” Tony starts to say, but then cuts himself off with a hard swallow when the door opens and he’s hit with another whiff of that damn pork chop. He instantly presses his knuckles against his closed lips to keep from gagging and hovers his other hand over his rolling stomach.

Steve shuts the fridge and turns back around, crossing his arms over his chest. “Alright, let’s cut the crap, Tony,” he says with a sigh. “How long have you been feeling sick?”

Tony lowers his hand, then swallows thickly. “About…”—he glances at his watch—“five, six hours?”

Steve blinks at him. “And you didn’t think that was worth mentioning like five, six hours ago?” he deadpans. “You know I’m supposed to be taking care of you, right?”

Tony feels a prickle of irritation come over him. “Well what exactly were you going to do about it?” he mutters, pulling out a barstool and sitting down. “Blend me a cracker?”

Steve huffs a bit and his lips spread into a half-smirk. “No need. I think we’ve still got some breadcrumbs in the pantry from the last time I made meatloaf.”

“God…” Tony lets out a little moan as his stomach churns again. He props his elbows up on the counter to hold his head in his hands. “Don’t talk about food. Please.”

All traces of humor disappear from Steve’s tone. “Do you think it’s just the meds? Or maybe something you ate?”

Tony breathes out the ghost of a laugh. “Haven’t eaten in ten days, Rogers.”

“Something you drank then?” he amends. At Tony’s vague grunt, Steve crosses the kitchen over to him. “Do you have a fever?” 

A hand enters Tony’s field of vision, heading in the direction of his forehead, but he swats it away irritably. “Don’t touch me,” he grumbles. He would add an ‘or I’ll puke on you,’ but he’s not sure that’s technically possible at the moment.

Steve hesitates a second, seeming uncertain. “Alright, just wait here a minute,” he finally says.

While Steve’s footsteps exit the kitchen, Tony lowers one arm to wrap around his stomach and does his best to control his breathing. He hopes to God this isn’t actually a bug; if so, this is quickly shaping up to be a contender for ‘Worst Nights of Tony’s Life,’—a ranking which currently holds such gems as his first acid trip back in the eighties, and the night he spent in a Slovakian jail cell being hit on by a two-toothed pig farmer named Ivan. 

He barely registers when Steve comes back into the room, and it’s not until he glances up from the counter that he notices he has his phone pressed between his ear and his shoulder. 

“Mm-hmm, yeah, think so,” Steve says quietly into the phone. He’s carrying the bin they keep their first aid supplies in, which he unloads onto the counter beside Tony. He fishes out a cheap digital thermometer and holds it out to Tony expectantly.

Tony just stares at him blankly. Then he bares his wired teeth a bit and points a finger at them.

Steve rolls his eyes and mimics putting the thermometer under his arm. “No, not as far as I know,” he continues his phone conversation.

Tony makes a face. “Gross,” he mutters. “Don’t we have one for the forehead?”

“Hang on, Bruce.” Speaking away from the phone now, Steve looks Tony in the eyes. “If you don’t want to use your armpit, there’s one other place it can go,” he says with a significant look.

Tony shudders. He pulls the bottom of his t-shirt up and sticks the thermometer under his sweaty arm. 

While they wait for the verdict, Steve retrieves a large mixing bowl from the cabinet. He nudges it in Tony’s direction with a sympathetic look while humming along to Bruce’s muffled instructions. Then he wets a washcloth at the sink and wrings it out before draping it across the back of Tony’s neck. Tony grunts a bit in appreciation at the coolness.

Finally the thermometer beeps. Tony takes it out and glances down at the number. “Shit,” he whispers.

“What does it say?” Steve asks.

Tony tilts the device in his direction. Steve squints at the display, then winces. “100.3,” he reports into the phone. After a few seconds, he says, “Hang on, Bruce, I’m gonna put you on speaker.” He lowers the phone from his ear and presses the button. “Go ahead.”

Bruce’s voice comes through the phone now. “Hey, Tony. I hear you’re not feeling so great.”

Tony grunts a bit. “Been better.” Another wave of nausea washes over him together with a full-body shiver. He lets his forehead sink onto the cool counter. 

“Yeah, I can imagine,” Bruce says sympathetically. “I was just telling Steve that your temperature is actually in the 100.8 to 101.3 range because auxiliary readings measure half to a full degree lower than oral.”

“Lucky me,” Tony mutters. 

Bruce asks him a few more questions, which Tony mostly replies to with small grunts or one-word answers, then asks Steve to switch them to video chat to get a closer look at his mouth. There’s no real evidence of infection aside from the fever, so based on that and the other gastrointestinal symptoms Tony’s experiencing, Bruce decides it’s probably a stomach bug.

“Just have to let the virus run its course,” Bruce says with a sigh. “I’m sorry.”

It’s the confirmation of Tony’s worst fear. “So…”—his breath hitches—“that’s it? I just choke then?”

“You won’t choke,” Bruce assures. “Everything you’ve consumed since your surgery has been liquid. If you need to throw up, you’re just going to lean your head forward, hold your cheeks out as far as you can, and let it run out.”

Tony’s heart is pounding hard and fast. He sits up straight, making his head swim. _“_ Can’t we just cut the damn wires so I can puke and be done with it?”

Bruce’s tone softens. “Tony, I know this sucks, but that’s really not a good idea. You just had surgery and your jaw is still fragile. It needs support.”

Steve gives him a sympathetic look, which only makes Tony’s anxiety morph into irritation. Granted, part of that irritation is probably because his stomach is cramping yet again.

“But our goal is to not let it come to that,” Bruce continues. “I have a couple anti-nausea tricks we can try, but I think most important is managing your pain right now. If you’re hurting, that’s only going to make you feel worse and make it harder for you to fall asleep.”

Tony knows Bruce is right—it’s been over eight hours since his last dose and his jaw is killing him—but there’s no way in hell he’s going to be able to keep that cherry-flavored bullshit down. It’s a lost cause. He just grimaces and shakes his head.

“I don’t think he’s up for swallowing right now, Bruce,” Steve translates for him.

No matter how terrible he feels at the moment, Tony can’t help himself but to huff out a quiet, “That’s what she said,” which receives a disapproving look from Steve in return.

Steve and Bruce discuss their options while Tony makes another trip to the bathroom. By the time he emerges, Steve has some kind of injectable painkiller to try. Tony’s feeling so shitty at that point that he barely notices when the needle pierces his shoulder.

Thankfully, the drug works quickly and the pain in his jaw reduces somewhat. Bruce suggests a few other home remedies to try before he excuses himself to get ready for his conference. It’s morning in Sweden already, and he’s contributing to some kind of hydroelectric power panel.

They try everything. Steve brews Tony ginger-lemon tea, waves peppermint oil under his nose, gives him ice chips to suck on, and opens the windows to let the chilly mid-April air in. Each remedy offers marginal relief, and after about half an hour, Tony’s feeling like he just might be able to keep his stomach in place long enough to fall asleep. 

Steve helps him to the bedroom and gets him situated with some extra pillows from the closet to prop him up on his side with a cup of water with a straw and a trash can by the bed. “Did you need anything else?” he checks.

“Think I’m good,” Tony breathes. He hugs one of the pillows a little tighter to his chest, catching himself wishing for Pepper. “You can go, thanks.”

Steve shifts his weight from one foot to the other, rubbing a hand awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Yeah… about that…”

Tony just blinks at him.

“Bruce and I were talking while you were in the bathroom,” Steve says. “We don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be left alone tonight.”

Tony blinks again. “You’re right down the hall.”

“I know, but”—he shifts his weight back to the other foot—“in case anything happens. Which it probably won’t,” he adds quickly, clearly sensing Tony’s returning panic. “But just to be safe. In case you start to, uh… aspirate.”

Tony squeezes his eyes shut. Tonight has just surpassed the time on his Worst Nights list that he got drunk and crashed his father’s prized 1965 Aston Martin DB5 into a World War II veterans monument. That incident had ended with shelling out astronomical amounts of hush money to the groundskeepers to keep it out of the press. He opens his eyes again. “Fine. Whatever.”

“You won’t even know I’m here,” Steve promises.

Tony watches tiredly as Steve pulls over the armchair that typically functions as the halfway house for Tony’s semi-worn clothing. He positions it about ten feet away from the bed and settles down into it, looking straight ahead.

“Lights, FRI,” Tony mutters, and the room immediately goes dark.

For the next several minutes, Tony lies as still as he can, trying to let sleep overtake him. It should be simple enough—he’s exhausted, feverish, and it’s nearly one a.m.—but every time Steve shifts ever so slightly, the chair makes the smallest of squeaks. That, combined with the man’s quiet breathing and the knowledge that he is basically just sitting there, waiting for catastrophe to strike, is making Tony go mad.

After another five minutes in which Tony is only getting more awake, he sits up in frustration. “Alright, this isn’t gonna work,” he mutters, slapping his hand at the lamp on the bedside table. “Can’t sleep with you staring at me.”

Steve frowns. “I could turn the chair around…?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Just get in the damn bed, Rogers,” he groans, lifting the edge of the covers up on Pepper’s side.

**X**

When Tony wakes again several hours later in a pool of his own sweat, he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is going to be sick. His stomach is rolling and his already aching jaw has started to tingle in a telltale way as saliva pools in his mouth.

This is going to suck. This is going to suck so fucking much.

Steve is stretched out on the mattress beside him, breathing deep, steady breaths. Ordinarily, the man is just about the last person Tony would want to witness him ejecting the contents of his stomach at God-knows-what-hour of the morning, but Tony’s panic is rapidly overtaking any scraps of pride he’s been clinging to. He flaps his hand at the soldier’s arm. “Steve...” he whimpers.

Steve wakes with a start. “Tony?” He feels the bed jostle a bit as Steve sits up quickly, flipping on Pepper’s bedside lamp. “What’s wrong?”

“Gonna throw up.”

Steve winces. “Do you wanna try more peppermint oil, or—”

“No.” Tony shakes his head minutely, feeling his stomach cramp. “ _Now.”_

Steve’s eyes widen. “Okay. Okay, hang on,” he says as he scrambles off the bed and around to help Tony swing his legs over the side of the mattress. “Can you make it to the bathroom?”

Tony shakes his head tightly and groans, eyes squeezed shut. _This is happening. Fuck. This is actually happening._

“Okay, no problem,” Steve says in a tone of forced calm, grabbing the plastic bin and holding it under Tony’s chin. “Just remember what Bruce said, alright? Lean forward as much as you can.”

Tony shakes his head again in horror, but he’s already tasting bile in the back of his throat. _Fuck. Fuck everything._ He burps sickly, then swallows it back.

“Stop fighting it, Tony,” Steve says quietly. “You’ll be alright—just get it over with.”

Tony’s trembling all over. “No, I can’t, I—” A gag cuts him off and there’s no stopping it now. Hot liquid shoots up the back of his throat and there’s a moment of pure horror as his mouth fills and _he can’t fucking breathe,_ and then Steve shoves his head forward and down at an angle so that gravity can take over.

It’s about as awful as Tony imagined. Each cough and gag pulls at the wires, making his jaw throb with pain and tears prick at his eyes. Hot vomit runs out through the spaces between his teeth and the sides of his mouth and he can barely get a breath in between heaves.

“That’s it, you’re alright…” Steve says softly. Still holding the bin, he maneuvers himself around to carefully sit beside Tony on the bed and wraps an arm around his shaking shoulders for support. “You’re fine, Tony. Just keep breathing.”

But he _can’t_ —that’s the whole fucking problem. He tries to inhale through his nose, but that’s filled with acidic bile too and it’s burning and his heart is galloping in his chest _._

“Can’t— breathe— it’s—” Tony sucks in a breath which immediately catches in his throat and turns into a choked gag. 

“You _are_ breathing, Tony,” Steve says gently, rubbing Tony’s shoulders with a heavy hand. “You just need to calm down, okay? It’ll stop, but you need to relax.”

And he knows that. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Tony knows that he’s not in danger. That he hasn’t eaten solid food in a week and half—there’s nothing in him to choke on. He knows that if he just stops panicking, he’ll be _fine._ But it doesn’t matter because the only thing that he can focus on is the liquid filling his restrained mouth and the fact that there is no _air._

Suddenly, he’s not in his bedroom anymore. He’s back in a dimly lit cave in the middle of Afghanistan, being held under water, sputtering and choking, his lungs burning from lack of oxygen. With every gasping breath he manages when they yank him up for air, his still-healing chest explodes in fresh pain. Someone is shouting at him—words, foreign words that he can’t place.

He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. _He can’t breathe._

Then, two familiar voices break through his panicked thoughts:

“...Have to calm him down...”

“...I’m trying! He won’t let me touch him…”

“...If he passes out, he’ll aspirate. You need to—“

“Shit Bruce, I think he’s having a flashback!”

“It’s okay. Just try to ground him...”

Gradually, Tony realizes someone is squeezing his hand, over and over in a steady rhythm. He looks down and instead of the rough hands of his abductors restraining him, he sees Steve’s strong one trying to offer him reassurance. Then he feels the silky bedcovers under his fingers and bit by bit he returns to the bedroom. 

“...That’s it, Tony,” Steve is saying. “You’re at home, you’re safe…”

Tony feels his stomach twisting and bile rising up in his throat again. He might be at home, but safe is about the furthest thing from how he feels. He can’t do this again. _He can’t._

Pushing Steve off of him, he leans over and yanks the nightstand drawer open. He fumbles his hand around inside before coming up with the wire cutters he’s been keeping there since the surgery and thrusts them at Steve, eyes pleading.

“He wants me to cut the wire, Bruce,” Steve says gravely.

Bruce’s voice comes through the phone’s speaker, “No, that’s an absolute last resort—”

“We’re there,” Steve cuts him off, as if reading Tony’s mind. “We’re there, Bruce. Where do I cut?”

The nausea ramps up once more and the only thing Tony can focus on is breathing as the thoughts start swirling in his head again. He can vaguely make out Bruce’s voice through the phone and then Steve’s fingers are prying his lips open and the wires are being snipped apart.

There’s instant relief as his jaw drops open and he sucks in a lungful of sweet, unobstructed air. But that moment is quickly overshadowed by the pure agony that follows. He’s coughing out bile and his jaw is on fire. His vision goes hazy and his ears are ringing and his head swims and Ivan can suck it—this is officially the worst night ever.

Then darkness overtakes him and he doesn’t feel a thing.

**X**

“...Tony? You back with me?”

With a muffled groan, Tony flutters his eyelids open to find himself lying on his back on a bed that is significantly less comfortable than his own. Blinking around the room, he takes in the usual array of tubes, wires, and beeping machines that come with waking up in the compound’s medical facility.

“How are you feeling?” Steve asks softly.

Tony’s brain seems to be running at half-speed. “I…” he starts to say, then stops when he realizes he can’t open his mouth any further. “Wha’ ‘appened?”

Steve frowns. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Tony thinks for a second. “Was sick. Cut the wires.” He blinks slowly, his brow furrowing weakly. “Did... you carry me here?”

Steve smirks a bit. “Just did what I had to do.” He lets out a sigh, sitting back down in the chair beside Tony’s bed. “We got a surgeon out to rewire your jaw. You’re on IV painkillers and a tranquilizer now.”

Tony just blinks at him. He’s hearing the information, but nothing is really sticking. Must be the drugs.

“There’s nothing much else we can do. Bruce says you’ll have to stay in Medbay until the virus runs its course.” He gives Tony a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, we didn’t realize how much something like this might be triggering for you. Bruce said if he knew, we could have tried sedatives before.”

‘’S fine.” Normally this is the last conversation he’d want to have with Steve, but at the moment he can’t find it in himself to care. “‘S all good.”

Suddenly, Steve’s brow furrows and before Tony realizes what’s happening, the man is sitting him up, thrusting a kidney-shaped basin under his chin and guiding his head forward. It’s not until a second later, when liquid is spilling out of his mouth and into the bowl, that Tony even realizes he’s getting sick again. His stomach muscles ache from all the contracting and expanding, but otherwise he barely notices what’s occurring. 

Eventually Steve removes the basin and wipes his face off with a damp cloth. “You’re alright, Tony,” he assures, squeezing Tony’s shoulder with his free hand. “You’re doing great.”

“I know...” Tony croaks then lets out the smallest of giggles. “‘M doing awesome…”

“Yeah.” Steve chuckles quietly. “Now let’s just remember to leave your faceplate up next time you snark off to HYDRA goons, alright?”

Tony’s eyes slip closed under his drug-induced haze. “Copy that, Cap,” he mumbles.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always appreciated! We love getting feedback on our work <3
> 
> Come and hang out on tumblr if you want: [whumphoarder](https://whumphoarder.tumblr.com/) & [awesomesockes](http://awesomesockes.tumblr.com/)


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